He lied about everything yet they continue to follow him. There’s a word for that
Oh my God, I just made the mistake of looking at my IRA.
It’s down $35,000 over the past month.
That’s more money than I make in a year. That money is part of my life’s savings.
I know it can come back, but that won’t happen any time soon. We’re just now beginning to see the negative impacts of Donald Trump’s “excursion” into Iran. Gas prices are up locally over a dollar a gallon, and when the price of fuel increases, so does the price of everything else. Inflation rose again last month, and that’s not including any of the price increases caused by this new forever war.
The cost of Trump’s “excursion” is running about a billion dollars a day. So far, it’s cost Americans $23 billion. Keep in mind the U.S. debt just crossed the $39 TRILLION mark. One of the planks to Trump’s campaign platform, if it can be called that, was to start paying down the debt. Not one penny has been committed to paying down the debt. Instead, he’s made it worse.
Iran isn’t fighting the American military. It’s fighting the global economy, and so far, with disruptions to shipping, increases in insurance costs and damage to infrastructure, it’s winning. And the disruptions won’t end any time soon, so hair-brained memes by Republicans of “short-term pain for long-term gain” hold no water. This will be a long, drawn-out conflict that could plunge the world into recession.
But just as Trump was unconcerned about the possibility of American servicemen being killed in his ill-considered venture – 13 and counting so far – and just as he was unconcerned about the prospect of American civilians being killed in terrorist attacks on U.S. soil, he’s also unconcerned about Americans who were already struggling financially now being clobbered with astronomical prices on food, fuel and housing.
Virtually none of the election promises Trump made have come to pass – quite the opposite – yet the MAGAt orcs continue to blindly defend and follow Herr Trump. There’s a word for that.
C-U-L-T.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Image by Pexels.
Introduction to “The Garage”
Craig Terry gave me the idea for this story. He didn’t own a garage.
I met Craig in the 1990s. I was working at a newspaper, editing copy, putting together sections, and Craig was hired as a staff artist. He was also a talented political cartoonist but I worked with him on illustrations for my feature sections. Through our interactions we came to be friends. I didn’t find out later that he and his wife were friends with my mom. Small world.
At one point Craig expressed an interest in getting into comics. I had dipped a toe into that world, thanks to my friendship with Dave Dorman and Lurene Haines, and it also happened that I was working on a project called “13 Seconds,” a collection of 13 very short horror stories – all under 1,000 words – that I was hoping to sell to Joe Pruett at Negative Burn. I asked Craig if he wanted to illustrate them and he said yes.
In talking with Craig about “13 Seconds” I mentioned I was scrounging for another idea for a story. That’s when he told me his idea about a messy garage. I can’t remember the details but what emerged from that conversation was this story, “The Garage,” about a man with perhaps the world’s messiest garage – and oldest stash of hoarded goods – in the world.
We sent a couple of sample stories to Joe and he passed on the project, but as luck would have it Stefan Dziemianowicz was editing a collection of very short horror stories for Barnes & Noble, “Horrors! 365 Scary Stories.” I submitted all 13 of my super-shorts and seven made the cut, including “The Garage.”
So there you have it, a story about a man whose garage is packed with junk The farther back you go, the older the junk gets, until it gets really old.
Who knows what else might be lurking in the musty confines of that storage space?
—
THE GARAGE
By Del Stone Jr. and C.M. Terry
“It’s a beauty, ain’t it?” Parker glowed, his voice equal parts admiration and pride, the voice of a man who had just shit the world’s biggest turd – and would now sell his story to Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
But Samuelson had to admit: It did have a certain grandeur, the way train derailments or airplane disasters unfold with strange beauty, layered within the horror.
The messiest garage he’d ever seen.
“Come on; let’s take a look,” Parker insisted, speaking in a reverent whisper.
Parker’s garage was a disaster, the chintzy bastard. Didn’t he every throw anything away? Samuelson’s gaze traveled over the Escher-like arrangement of junk: bicycle parts, wheel rims, sacks of aluminum cans, lampshades, a seamstress’s dummy, wire mesh crab traps, leaning towers of newspapers – oh God, the eye refused to take it all in. It gathered in drifts at the corners, rode the walls and scrunched against the ceiling, a critical mass approaching some terrible implosion.
“I’ve got a ’67 Eldorado somewhere under all this stuff,” Parker grinned. “But the best part is back here.”
He led Samuelson down a narrow path to the back of the garage. There, he wedged his shoulder against a door Samuelson hadn’t noticed and pushed. The door groaned and gave way. Parker flipped on a light.
It was another room … filled with junk. Old ice boxes, ironclad electric ranges, fans, Life magazines, wooden crates filled with empty Coke bottles. …
“The previous owners left this stuff here,” Parker beamed. “Lots of antiques. I’m gonna make a fortune.”
Samuelson could see the dollar signs glowing in Parker’s eyes. He gazed across the room, where he saw another door. “What’s back there?”
Parker frowned. “I dunno. Never noticed it before.” He tiptoed through the clutter and forced open the door.
Another room. Filled with junk. Crockery chamberpots and blackened andirons and dusty bottles and wooden boxes. Parker had his hands on his hips. “Jesus! I didn’t know this stuff was here, but God, look at it! Ain’t it great?”
But Samuelson was staring at the opposite wall. Another door. Parker noticed, and his jaw dropped. “Holy shit! That’s impossible! The house doesn’t go back that far!”
The room was filled with spears and quivers and hairy mounds of animal skins. The walls were covered with charcoal scrawlings of bears and lions and mammoth-like creatures.
Parker’s voice was filled with wonder. “I don’t understand it,” he said, spreading his arms to take in the room, “but it’s – it’s – terrific! Stone Age junk! Can you guess what this stuff would sell for? Can you? Millions, I’d bet!”
Samuelson grabbed Parker’s arm and began to haul him back. There, at the back of the chamber, was another door, an opening, really, blocked by a fall of stones. Behind the stones Samuelson could hear a scritching sound, and a basso rumbling, as if something very large waited on the other side. A cool finger of dread began to work its way up the knobs of Samuelson’s spine.
“C’mon,” Parker hissed, jerking away and stumbling off-balance across the room. “Let’s check it out.”
“No, goddammit,” Samuelson whispered. “Can’t you hear it? Can’t you hear it?”
But Parker was already shoving rocks out of the way and shouting over his shoulder, “C’mon, man! This is my lottery ticket! This is my ship coming in!”
Then the rocks at the top of the opening tumbled loose, and something – Samuelson could not say what – reached through and yanked Parker off his feet and into the gap so that Samuelson saw only Parker’s boots vanish into the darkness, trailed only by a snapped-off scream. …
And as Samuelson turned and sprinted for the door, a sickening image arose in his mind, an image of the lock somehow ratcheting into place behind them as they’d entered the chamber, because from the opening rocks were being hurled out of the way, and something with a growl that sounded a million years old was trying to break free.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Introduction to “The Hole”
I wrote this story as part of a project I called “13 Seconds,” a collection of one-page horror stories, each with an accompanying full-page illustration. Alas, that project never saw the light of day.
But the stories did. I sold seven to the Barnes & Noble anthology “Horrors! 365 Scary Stories.” The others found homes across a wide spectrum of publications. This story, for instance, was published in Dark Raptor.
What I tried to accomplish with “The Hole” was to glimpse the inner thoughts of a sexually repressed misogynist. In this case, he’s using the telescope sight on a rifle to spy on his sexy neighbor, who’s exercising and won’t sit still. Anybody who’s ever used a telescope sight knows movement will carry the targeted image out of the sight instantly, so it’s imperative they remain still.
In his zeal to get the woman to stay still so he can ogle her, the man gets carried away and … well, something unfortunate happens.
And yes, the word “hole,” as used in this story, has more than one meaning. The protagonist is a misogynist.
—
THE HOLE
Bobby blinked and strained to focus on the wobbling image in the binocular’s eyepiece.
He wanted to see if she had the hole.
But he couldn’t see. Peering from the sliding glass door that let out of his apartment bedroom onto the narrow, vestigial balcony … peeking through the slats of aluminum vertical blinds stained with cigarette smoke and the sharp exhalation of pent-up breath … the bedroom lights off so that if she glanced his way, across the apartment complex commons, a stray look that might snag on the glint of a reflection or his black shape superimposed against the lighter wall. …
But she didn’t look, and he couldn’t see … if she had the hole – the hole that all women who hated him had.
He cursed the binoculars. He tossed them onto the bed, where they bounced like a dead trampolinist. He needed magnification. He needed power.
He needed the scope on the Enfield.
He pulled the rifle from the closet and slid off the protective covering on the sight. He used the barrel to force aside – just barely – one of the blinds so he could peek through. The building facade jerked across his field of view, then a dizzying blur of patios, until he found her patio, at first unfamiliar because of its closeness. But he recognized her potted geraniums, her director’s chair, her faux copper wind chimes swaying from the crossbeam that traversed the patio.
And then he saw her.
Bouncing in the bedroom, an exercise video playing on the TV. Smooth and long-limbed and elegant – not pretty, not beautiful, but … sexy, the way some women transcend those overheated adjectives men use when they are together and talking dirty. She was wrapped in a skimpy pink lycra body suit, like some rare, imported confection, and her dark, dark hair was bound up into a pony tail that was tied off with a bandana, and she was bouncing and swaying and kicking in a way most men would have found sexy.
But Bobby wanted her to sit still.
Because he couldn’t see if she had the hole.
He twisted the focal adjustment screw and tried to zoom in on her, but she was moving so fast, her legs kicking out behind her. And then she was bending, up and down, up and down.
Bobby closed his eyes and swore under his breath. If she would just sit still for a moment. A moment was all he would need.
He slid open the sliding glass door. Now, with only a thin screen blocking his view, he might see better.
But she was doing the deep-knee bend thing, up and down, up and down, and he could not see – he couldn’t see, dammit.
“Sit still, bitch,” he muttered, and slapped the screen door open. It slammed against the frame and made a loud, clattering sound. His heart jumped and he yanked the rifle snout out of the blinds, afraid she might have heard and turned this way.
But no. She had her hands above her head and was bending at the waist, first to the left, then to the right, first to the left –
“Sit still, you fucking bitch,” he seethed and yanked the rifle against his shoulder to squint harder through the scope.
She was bouncing, bouncing, the exercise video seeming to bounce with her –
“Sit still, goddammit – “
Bouncing, bouncing –
“Goddammit – “ he couldn’t see, he couldn’t see –
– bouncing –
He squeezed the trigger and the gun kicked and for a moment he could hear nothing but an eerie, feverish ringing. He squinted through the scope, and finally he saw her. …
Slumped over the television, her arms dangling, as if she had exercised herself to death.
But she was still, at last, and he saw it. The hole. The hole that all women had who hated him or ignored him or could care less if he even existed. What was this now? The tenth? The eleventh woman he had found with the hole? Someday, all the women with holes would be gone, and only women who cared about him would be left. He would see to that. He would make sure. They would be gone if they had the hole.
The cratered, steamy hole surrounded by a splash of blood.
The hole.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
By now you must be thinking, “Del threatens to stop posting on social media when he feels the need for attention.”
That’s not true (although I do like attention. Feel free to give me all the attention you want).
When I threaten to stop posting on social media it’s because I genuinely don’t want to do it anymore – at least at that moment.
I have a problem with social media – I think it’s a poison. On the list of bad ideas it ranks up there with television and atomic bombs. I prefer my mass media to be vetted by gatekeepers who winnow out the stupidity and ignorance. Social media allow any moron with a keyboard to speak on an equal footing with professionals who’ve earned advanced degrees and spent their lives developing unmatched expertise.
The idea that “every voice is equal” is bullshit. Some people should never be heard. I say that as a person who lives and dies by the First Amendment – some people should NEVER be heard.
Yet if I want to communicate with my fellow Americans – and that’s something I’ve been doing for so long it’s baked into my identity – I’m forced to use social media. That’s where people are, so that’s where I am.
That comes at a price. The criticism is relentless. I’m attacked for my age, the fact that I’m gay, my political beliefs, even my appearance. It’s childish and I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it does.
Also, I don’t want to be part of the problem. A friend told me that’s exactly what I am – part of the problem. He said that without ever having seen any of my videos, so I’m not sure how much credence I should give his opinion. I mean, I hope I’m not part of the problem. I try hard to be fair and accurate.
I’m always surprised to hear that people find value in what I say. I’m not well educated, I’m not smart, and I’m sure as hell not good-looking. But I do care, and I care deeply, about what’s happening in this country. I hate what that asshole in the White House and his supporters are doing to America. I hate knowing he will probably get away with it.
I’ve been talking to large groups of people for going on five decades. Between my old Tennis Time column, my weekly newspaper column, my fiction, and now my social media posts, I’ve acquired a very big mouth – and the need to deploy that mouth. It’s my habit to say what’s on my mind.
Yes, the negativity and attacks get me down sometimes and I have to step away, AND tell people I’m stepping away, because that’s what I do – talk to large groups of people. But I always come back because as I said, that’s what I do – talk to large groups of people.
Please indulge me my snits. With what’s happening in this country, the need is critical and the time is now for everybody to speak up.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .